I held unconscious intercourse with beauty
Old as creation, drinking in a pure
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
Of curling mist, or from the level plain
Of waters coloured by impending clouds.

The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell

How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade,
And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills
Sent welcome notice of the rising moon,
How I have stood, to fancies such as these
A stranger, linking with the spectacle
No conscious memory of a kindred sight,
And bringing with me no peculiar sense
Of quietness or peace; Yet have I stood,

Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league
Of shining water, gathering as it seemed

Through every hair-breadth in that field of light
New pleasure like a bee among the flowers.

Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy
Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits
Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss.
Which, like a tempest, works along the blood
And is forgotten; even then I felt
Gleams like the flashing of a shield;-the earth
And common face of Nature, spake to me
Rememberable things; sometimes, 'tis true,
By chance collisions and quaint accidents
(Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed
Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain
Nor profitless, if haply they impressed
Collateral objects and appearances,

Albeit, lifeless then, and doomed to sleep
Until maturer seasons called them forth
To impregnate and to elevate the mind.
-And if the vulgar joy by its own weight
Wearied itself out of the memory,

The scenes which were a witness of that joy
Remained in their substantial lineaments
Depicted on the brain, and to the eye
Were visible, a daily sight; and thus
By the impressive discipline of fear,
By pleasure and repeated happiness,
So frequently repeated, and by force
Of obscure feelings representative

Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright,
So beautiful, so majestic in themselves,
Though yet the day was distant, did become
Habitually dear, and all their forms

And changeful colours by invisible links.
Were fastened to the affections.

My story early-not misled, I trust,
By an infirmity of love for days

I began

Disowned by memory-ere the breath of spring
Planting my snowdrops among winter snows: *
Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend! so prompt

In sympathy, that I have lengthened out
With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale.
Meanwhile, my hope has been that I might fetch
Invigorating thoughts from former years;
Might fix the wavering balance of my mind,
And haply meet reproaches too, whose power

Snowdrops still grow abundantly in an orchard and meadow, by the road skirting the western side of Esthwaite Lake.-ED.

May spur me on, in manhood now mature
To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes
Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught
To understand myself, nor thou to know

With better knowledge how the heart was framed
Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee
Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit
Those recollected hours that have the charm
Of visionary things, those lovely forms
And sweet sensations that throw back our life,
And almost make remotest infancy

A visible scene, on which the sun is shining?

One end at least hath been attained; my mind Hath been revived, and if this genial mood Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down Through later years the story of my life. The road lies plain before me;-'tis a theme Single and of determined bounds; and hence I choose it rather at this time, than work Of ampler or more varied argument, Where I might be discomfited and lost; And certain hopes are with me, that to thee This labour will be welcome, honoured Friend!

Book Second.

SCHOOL-TIME-continued.

Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace

The simple ways in which my childhood walked ; Those chiefly that first led me to the love Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet Was in its birth, sustained as might befal By nourishment that came unsought; for still From week to week, from month to month, we lived A round of tumult. Duly were our games Prolonged in summer till the day-light failed; No chair remained before the doors; the bench And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep The labourer, and the old man who had sate A later lingerer; yet the revelry Continued and the loud uproar; at last,

When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went, Feverish with weary joints and beating minds. Ah! is there one who ever has been young, Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem? One is there, though the wisest and the best Of all mankind, who covets not at times Union that cannot be ;-who would not give, If so he might, to duty and to truth

The

eagerness of infantine desire ?

A tranquilising spirit presses now
On my corporeal frame, so wide appears

The

vacancy between me and those days

Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
That, musing on them, often do I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being. A rude mass
Of native rock, left midway in the square
Of our small market village, was the goal
Or centre of these sports;* and when, returned
After long absence, thither I repaired,

Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place
A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground
That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream,
And be ye happy! Yet, my Friends! I know
That more than one of you will think with me
Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame
From whom the stone was named, who there had sate,
And watched her table with its huckster's wares
Assiduous, through the length of sixty years.

We ran a boisterous course; the year span round
With giddy motion. But the time approached
That brought with it a regular desire

For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms
Of Nature were collaterally attached

To every scheme of holiday delight

And every boyish sport, less grateful else
And languidly pursued.

When summer came

Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,
To sweep along the plain of Windermere

The "square" of the "small market village" of Hawkshead remains, and the presence of the new "assembly-room" does not prevent us from realising it as open, with the "rude mass of native rock left midway" in it the "old grey stone," which was the centre of the village sports.-ED.